Brushstrokes and Anchors

We started as lightning that turned quickly to thunder-
drums.  Our first dinner date ended with breakfast.

Neither of us wanted to be labeled by something so
trite as devotion, so for the next six months we
tangoed up over across and around the line of commitment,
each checkpoint another slack-jawed promise to placate
ourselves into spending one more night in frantic exigence
and not in love.

In the absence of purpose I went looking for meaning,
and when I disabused myself somehow of the notion I could
find it in your arms, I walked one-eighty away.

But foresight’s forty-forty, and I, no wiser than the
moment, could scarcely see two inches in front of my
fucking face when it came to you.  My failure in falling
was trying to control the descent.

I saw you the other day for the first time in months.
Your brushstrokes were broader and bolder than
the timid acrylics I’m used to.  Who the fuck let you
find a needle of peace in the broken heart haystack
I piled in your chest?  Where are all the anchors I
tied to your limbs?

Why aren’t you sinking?